Sonet 88

Small comfort might my banish'd hopes recall,
When whiles my daintie Faire I sighing see;
If I could thinke that one were shed for me,
It were a guerdon great enough for all:
Or would she let one teare of pittie fall,
That seem'd dismist from a remorcefull eye,
I could content my selfe vngrieu'd to die,
And nothing might my constancie appall,
The onely sound of that sweet word of loue,
Prest twixt those lips that do my doome containe,
Were I imbark'd, might bring me backe againe
From death to life, and make me breathe and moue.
Strange crueltie, that neuer can afford
So much as once one sigh, one teare, one word.